The Importance of Potions Recipes
by The Queen Conquers
Summary: Sirius sits back in his chair and ponders the unfairness of it all. The Ministry had played God with many a witch and wizard before, but this was just ridiculous. It was as though they'd opened up his skull, inserted the most lewd Remus-themed dreams imaginable, and shouted a quick "Go get 'em, tiger!" before scampering away to watch Grimmauld Place devolve into madness.


Queen Vampyre Akasha was gone for a long time. College was hard. I have almost no ability to balance academic ambition with fun and things that make me a real person instead of a studious robot. I'm trying to change that before grad school starts in the Fall. Yell at me all you like, but know that you're saying nothing I didn't already yell at myself when I realized that my grades and my ability to enjoy the world outside the library had an inverse correlation.

Queen Vampyre Akasha was conquered by scholarly ambition. A new Queen will try to get her, and the creative aspects college completely robbed me of, back. Enjoy!

* * *

_In The Beginning, There Were Fantasies_

The first dream is a blur of satin sheets, pale skin, and raunchy, dirty, positively _awful_ things, and Sirius is so ashamed that he can't even be glad he didn't dream of Azkaban that night. He wakes up mid-moan, sticky and drenched in sweat, feeling like there are tiny fingers massaging every inch of his body up and down and side to side and just…_just…_

He has to stay in bed for a whole hour, staring up at the ceiling and straining to keep his hands firmly at his sides (and out of his pajama bottoms), before he can leave his room.

The second dream is far more vivid, and downright _filthy_. It's the sort of stuff Sirius used to talk to James about, when they were young, dumb, and dreaming of the day when a woman would finally do the things they couldn't accomplish with their right hands. It's the same set of satin sheets and the same pale skin, but _Merlin_, the _details_. The biting, the hair tugging, the bruises, the spanking, the _Oh yesyesyes, there, harder, faster, right there, oh __**yes**__, just…__**just**_...

He wakes up panting just before his dream-self reaches that wonderful moment, but just in time to feel his real pajamas grow warm and wet. He doesn't leave his room before noon, because he's not sure he can look anyone in the eye at breakfast.

The third dream in as many nights is just about all he can take, both mentally and physically. Physically because his heart races, his limbs twitch, his toes curl, and he wakes up feeling both intensely sated and bone tired. Mentally because, this time, in between the round arse cheeks reddened from slapping and the collarbones bruised from love bites, he sees a face. A familiar face, with a perfect pink tongue peeking out from behind impossibly white teeth as kiss-swollen lips babble out _Sirius, Sirius, Sirus—ooohh, God, yes, Sirius, anything, anything you want, just don't stop, please, don't you dare stop._

The sex isn't what's got him trembling this time. It's the golden amber eyes half hidden behind a mane of sweat-softened sandy brown hair.

He wakes up with a gasp, not just at the feeling in his nether regions, but at the realization that he's been dreaming of Remus. He spends the entire day in his room, half of out of fear of seeing Remus, and half out of mortification that he's been dreaming of sex with another man.

The next dream, though, comes (no pun intended, no matter how amusing Sirius wishes this situation could be) just a few hours later. He's wide awake, staring out the window and watching a bunch of Muggle children running about in the street, when he sees Remus approaching Grimmauld Place. Plain black robes with the sleeves rolled up, too-long hair brushed over and behind his ears, and strong, longer-fingered hands searching his left pocket for—

_I want to be on top this time, Sirius_.

Sirius shudders as a blurred flash of Remus' face flits through his mind. He can hear his voice, too, but knows it can't be real. Not when the real Remus is standing down there, brow wrinkled in frustration as he looks in his other pocket for—

_Just lie back and enjoy the show._

He shakes himself violently and stumbles away from the window. His hands begin to twitch as dream-Remus slowly goes from blurred and hazy to perfectly clear behind his eyelids.

_I know you love it when I move my hips just…like…this._

Sirius isn't even looking at Remus anymore, isn't looking at _anything_. He's just sitting on the floor, head in his hands, rocking back and forth as dream-Remus climbs on top of him and—

_Oh, yes, more, harder, faster, I want—pleasepleaseplease, so close, soclosesocloseso—_

And just as quickly as it starts, the daydream—fucking _hallucination—_ends. Dream-Remus leans over with a sated smile and sweaty curls and kisses his forehead tenderly, and then he's just _gone_. Sirius' mind is as blank as it had been a minute ago, save for the now burning question regarding _what the fuck is going on here_.

He stays awake that night hoping that the dreams won't come (and that he won't either). His efforts at avoiding dreams about thoroughly debauching his best mate are rewarded with flashes of daydream-Remus sucking melted chocolate off his own fingers.

He makes it three days without sleep before fatigue gets the better of him, and he passes out in the library after an Order meeting. The nighttime naughtiness returns in full force, and he wakes up the next morning with a crick in his neck, a tent in his trousers, and memories of dream-Remus bent over a desk. Knuckles white as he gripped the sides, neck bared as dream-Sirius grabbed him by the hair and marked him with hickeys, and pupils blown wide as the two of them rocked back and forth _just like that, just like that, just—just—oh God, Sirius!_

Sirius spends the morning in his bed trying to will away the seemingly never-ending arousal that these dreams keep causing. He counts Puffskeins, thinks of England, even recites Slughorn's formula for Dreamless Sleep. By noon, he's desperate enough to try thinking of Professor Dumbledore. By two past noon, he lets out a growl of frustration and gives in. He flicks his wand toward the door, mutters a silencing spell, shoves a steady (_There, see? No more shaking. __No need to be frightened, Padfoot, it's only me. Only Moony. I won't bite...unless you want me to.) _hand under the covers, and just _goes to town_.

The first touch feels so _wrong_, because dream-Remus had been on his knees, staring up with those big, lust-blown eyes as he slowly took off dream-Sirius' underwear off with this teeth. He'd been whispering promises of bed-rockingly mind-blowing things that couldn't possibly be legal, even in dreams. He'd licked the Azkaban tattoo on dream-Sirius' hipbone in a delicious sort of way that had made the real, then-sleeping Sirius' hips twitch. Thinking of dream-Remus like this, while he's awake and entirely aware of who and what he's thinking of, makes Sirius feel dirtier than the daydream he'd had two days ago involving candle wax, honey, and an old Gryffindor tie.

But Sirius doesn't have time to feel shame as memories of his most recent dream shift into a new daydream, and his hand speeds up under the sheets. Dream-Remus is sitting on top of him in nothing but a black bathrobe, which is tied loosely enough that the pale chest beneath it peeks through. He's running his hands up and down dream-Sirius' sides, and then leans in close to whisper sinful things in his ear.

_Did you like it that time? They say practice makes perfect, so I'm sure another go wouldn't hurt. _

Both dream-Sirius and currently wanking Sirius nod and think, "God, yes, Remus. Anything you do is amazing."

Dream-Remus leans back and tucks a sweaty lock of hair behind one ear. It's wild and tussled from...wait.

_Wait._

Sirius' hand slows down as he realizes that nothing's happening, in his dream or in his pants.

_Wasn't that my best? Wasn't that worth it?_

Dream-Sirius, currently not wanking Sirius, and both Siriuses' nether regions are incredibly confused now. This dream, unlike all of the others that have popped into his head in the past week, has picked up where each of the others left off. He's starting _after _the sex. And not even soon enough after that there are wet spots to be argued over, condoms to discard, or silencing charms to disarm. This dream's started up just when the pillowtalk begins, and Sirius just _doesn't understand what the fuck is going on here_.

_If it was really worth it...you'll take out the trash next time I ask, won't you?_

His hand stops moving entirely. His dream-self nods with a goofy smile on his face, and then leans forward to plant a soft kiss of dream-Remus' forehead.

"What in God's name...," he says to himself, as dream-Remus kisses dream-Sirius again and thanks him for what was clearly sex in exchange for household chores. Sirius wants to concern himself with the point at which his subconscious had stopped dreaming up ways for Remus to be a wanton sex-fiend, and had started dreaming up ways for him to be the sort of sex-fiend who exchanged brain-meltingly fantastic lewdness for washing dishes. He wants to be concerned with the fact that, in this dream, it's very clear that dream-Remus and dream-Sirius have some sort of life together, wherein dream-Sirius is being rewarded for mundane chores with sex. He wants to be _very concerned_ about the fact that, despite never having slept with a man before, he and his dream-self appear to be enjoying both the sex and their life with dream-Remus very much.

Now-very-much-not-wanking Sirius settles on confusion, though, because this dream's so different from the others. He's spent a week bending dream-Remus over desks and tables, being ridden like a wild hippogriff, and being treated like his genitals are his most vital attribute. He's confused because he's never thought of Remus this way before, never _dreamt _of Remus this way before, but has been for a whole week and is now dreaming of cuddling and who to have over for afternoon tea. He's especially confused, though, when his body betrays him and, with a hip-twitch and a moan, he makes a mess of the sheets. He stares down at himself, half in fear and half in frustration, wondering how in the hell this is even happening, and _what the fuck this is in the first place._

A million questions hang in the air above Sirius' head, along with the smell of sex, for at least an hour before he has the guts to leave his room and run for the library. But not before a very hot, yet not very cleansing shower.

* * *

I'm using stories as a way to assure myself that there's a world outside of the library. I'm also using them as a way to experiment with writings styles for projects I'll be starting in grad school. Help a girl out with some reviews.


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